I Am Not a Robot
by TnT6713
Summary: "You used to really like this kid, back before you even realized you liked him." Hugo Weasley always liked the idea of Scorpius Malfoy. Too bad life always got in the way. One-shot. Tentatively rated T, could probably pass for K .


You used to really like this kid. You used to stay up at night, thinking about him. You used to wonder if he was thinking about you, too. But you knew he wasn't. He liked another boy, another boy who wasn't you. He always liked another boy.

He always liked his best friend.

Which was sweet, when you think about it. The two of them could have been brilliant together. You liked to think you could have been brilliant, too.

It doesn't matter anymore.

You liked him back when you were young and stupid and you didn't even realize you liked him. You used to think it was just admiration. You used to think you wanted to _be_ him, not that you wanted to be with him.

You were so wrong, it was almost laughable.

You would get this feeling when he looked at you, this foreign tug somewhere behind your lungs, like there was something pulling you forward, pulling you closer to him. And it was so stupid, so incredibly stupid, how you would feel an uncomfortable pang of pain in the same exact place when he would smile at you, then run along to spend time with your sister. Seeing them so happy used to make you flinch.

A not unsubstantial satisfaction came from knowing you had kissed him first.

It remains—to this day—one of your favorite memories. The look on her face when you told her should have made you upset, guilty, regretful. But no such feelings came. You can still recall the taste of his teeth, the nicotine on his lips, how everything happened so fast but felt so slow and you held onto him as tight as you could for fear of floating away. He was nothing like kissing girls. And she seemed so sad, so scared. She couldn't believe her little brother would betray her like that. But it wasn't your fault; it was never your fault. He kissed you first.

He kissed you first.

It had always been obvious just how much she liked him. She may have even loved him. She did love him. You know she did. And you know he liked her, too. But he didn't love her. And you would have derived a sick sort of satisfaction from it, but he didn't love you, either. And it only made you cold.

In hindsight, you're happy he never loved you. Because you never loved him, either. You loved the idea of him, this idyllic version of a boy you barely knew, your imagination having morphed him into some sort of god, some sort of benevolent being sent from above to shower you with praise. You had almost legitimately believed he was an angel.

But he wasn't. He still isn't.

He's a god damn person, with thoughts and fears and flaws and failures, with shortcomings and a short temper. He's possessive and jealous and moody. He falls in love far too easily. His hobbies include smoking and giving up. He became far too promiscuous far too early. He's been in love with your cousin since the day he was fucking born. He's not your perfect prince. He's not the angel you had built him up to be. He's not perfect, he was never perfect, and he was never yours.

You were so selfish to have wanted him anyway. You had Lysander. You still have Lysander. And honestly, he was the greatest thing to have ever happened to you. He's better than the air in your lungs, better than the smoke on your tongue, better than the chocolate in the back of your throat. He's liquid magic running through your veins. He's magnetic.

He's magnetic.

And you were just this stupid little boy, this dumb little kid who thought he was worthy of such affection. You thought you were worthy of Lysander, you thought you were worthy of _him_. But you weren't. _He_ knew. _He_ preferred your sister, your cousin, your roommate. Anyone but you. Everyone but you.

You're still waiting for Lysander to realize. Ten years, twenty years, fifty years later, you'll still be waiting. But he'll never think you unworthy. He'll never see you as a dumb little kid, because you were never just some stupid boy in his eyes. You were Hugo Weasley, his best friend. Hugo Weasley, his boyfriend. Hugo Weasley, his husband. And one day, the two of you will meet in some other life, with other names and other circumstances, and you will shake his hand and smile, and it will be like coming home. You won't understand it. But this—you and him, as you are now—will always have existed.

And you wouldn't have Lysander if you had had _him_. You're glad he never loved you; you would have resented him forever if you had missed out on what you have now.

But you hated it back then.

God, you hated it and you didn't even love _him_. You just wanted his attention and, once you got it, you didn't like what you saw. You wanted him to kiss you again, like he had that very first time, all electric and intoxicating and so good you felt you might float away. But he didn't, and even if he had, it wouldn't have been anything like that first time. Nothing ever could have. You had been so stupid to think it might.

You used to really like this kid, back when you were young and stupid and didn't even realize you liked him.

o0o

Tears are rolling, running, rushing down your cheeks. The cigarette in your hand trembles and, had this not been the center of London, you'd be scared of waking the neighbors. Your head is spinning; the bright lights of the city are burned into your retinas. Everything hurts. You're so _tired_.

"_What the fuck is this?" He says. He's holding a pack of cigarettes. He's got this look in his eyes, the only look you've never seen before. It's somewhere between disgust and pity and confusion, between rage and concern. It scares you._

You bring the shaking fag to your lips, closing your eyes as you inhale. You lose yourself in the scent of smoke as it fills your lungs, the air, the world, and for a moment, it's almost like salvation. Everything's okay. If you open your eyes, you'll wake up, you'll be at home. He'll smile at you and tell you that you've overslept. You'll hear a muffled giggle from your daughter, followed by a suspicious crash. Everything will be okay if you just open your eyes.

"_How long ago did you start smoking again? God dammit, Hugo, you promised me you were done with this!"_

"_A couple months," you stammer. You want to say there's a lump in your throat, but it much more closely resembles a boulder having been shoved into your esophagus, so that not even the smallest particles of air can pass through._

"_And you've been lying to me all this time?"_

_He's trying to be angry, but you can see there are tears in his eyes, just as there are tears in yours. Everything feels so _heavy_. To answer would feel like dying._

You open your eyes.

Everything is not okay.

It's the middle of the night and you're freezing. You can't sleep. Lysander kicked you out. Ten glorious years of loving no one but him, and he kicked you out. You didn't even get to say goodbye to your daughter. He just told you to get out, to pack up your things and go—he refused to live with a liar.

Scorpius Malfoy opens the door to the balcony, his brow furrowed in concern. You briefly remember why you liked him, back before you realize you liked him; he _cared_.

"Hugo?" he asks, joining you in the chilly air. "You okay?"

You're not, of course you're not. He knows you're not. But to answer would feel like dying.

"_Get out."_

"_B-But Ly—"_

"_Get out, Hugo."_

"_Ly, don't do this, please—"_

"_Get out of my house!"_

You look down at the cigarette between your fingers and you're just so _disgusted_ with yourself, so horrified that you could continue with the practice that lost you the love of your life. It slips from your grip, dragging your dignity with it, and a fresh batch of tears slips from your eyelids.

"I needed some air," you stammer, "and then I needed a smoke, and then I started crying."

Your vision is so blurred from the tears that you don't even see him step closer, you just feel his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight and patting your back. You can hear him murmuring nonsense words, attempting to comfort you, but it really doesn't matter; you can't make out what he's saying. Everything's just numb.

Eventually, your sobs devolve into hiccups and ragged breathing. He pushes your hair back off of your face, lazily playing with a few of the bright red strands, and gives you a small, sad smile. He doesn't seem so tall anymore.

You try to smile back, you really do, and he places a cautious kiss against your lips, so light you almost wonder if it's really there. But it is, and it's slow, gentle, caring. It's soft, timid, cautious. He's right here. He's always been right here.

He's a person, with thoughts and fears and flaws and failures, with shortcomings and a short temper. He's possessive and jealous and moody. He falls in love far too easily. His hobbies include smoking and giving up. He became far too promiscuous far too early. He's been in love with your cousin since the day he was fucking born. He's not your perfect prince. He's not the angel you had built him up to be. He's not perfect, he was never perfect, and he was never yours.

And he may not be what you want—not by a long shot—but, right now, he's exactly what you need.


End file.
